i. my best friend tells me
she is a misprint in her own life story
because no one has ever told her
she can narrate it herself
ii. at age twelve, the lightning
stretching across my hips demands
more attention than any other natural disaster
and even holding my skeleton together
seems like more trouble than it’s worth
iii. i am helping elementary schoolers
during their quarter-hour break
from a theater class, making sure
they fill up their water bottles
and nibble on their graham crackers
when one dark-eyed little girl
confesses she thinks she is too big
to let anything past her crooked teeth
iv. every magazine i’ve ever read
tells skinny girls to wear large shirts
to create the illusion of a bust
and tells larger girls to don
vertical stripes and straight cuts
to form a shrinking silhouette because
no matter a woman’s size
the most beautiful part of her
is always the negative space
v. i may usually be terrified of heights
but i don’t get vertigo when i look down
and see where i used to be because
it’s no secret: i am better off where i am
nobody will ever love you as much as an artist can
on your worst days, they’ll find poetry in the knots of your hair
dear one year old me: speak up
dear two year old me: speak up
dear three year old me: speak up
dear four year old me: speak up
dear five year old me: speak up. please.
dear six year old me: just because he’s gone doesn’t mean you won’t be scared of high fives and fist bumps, because when you see clenched fingers, duck.
dear seven year old me: you’ll cuddle his old teddy bear and cry that you don’t have a daddy. it’s okay to want a father who hurts you over not having a father at all. your mother does not understand this.
dear eight year old me: wearing the shirts he left behind won’t make him come back
dear nine year old me: his birthday card for you isn’t late, it just isn’t coming
dear ten year old me: all of your friends have smiling dads, but you’ve been raised by an army of strong women and gay men. you’re doing just fine
dear eleven year old me: tell your mom he’s a bad idea
dear twelve year old me: please note the men in your life are garbage, but that doesn’t mean all men are garbage
dear thirteen year old me: tell him off sooner, his wandering eyes will turn into wandering hands and rape jokes. attention from boys is not always positive
dear fourteen year old me: your mother married a man who will threaten to kill you and you will run away. change into warmer clothes and put some shoes on.
dear fifteen year old me: speak up
dear sixteen year old me: speak up
dear seventeen year old me: speak up
I think little by little, everything kills us inside. I think bits and pieces of our worst nightmares come true when we least expect it. They all add up and it happens so often that we try to imagine that it’s supposed to happen this way. It isn’t.
I think that it’s the way we never know what our last kiss is or the last time we’ll hold their hand. I think it’s not falling in love when you need it most and falling out of love when you need it least. I think there’s something to a goodnight text when really you just want to sleep instead of hearing that phone ring one more time.
I think what kills us the most is loving the wrong people. I think getting heartbroken is a real shitty thing to happen but I think it’s worse when you saw it coming from miles away. I think it’s the way they kiss you without any passion or when you can tell that they’ll just never feel the same. Things aren’t always fair and I think that’s what kills us, too.
But I change my last statement- I don’t think loving the wrong people is the worst thing that can happen. I think the most damage is watching someone you love walk away without any remorse, without looking back even once. I think it’s that pity hug they give you when you see them in the shopping mall or them texting you ‘thanks!’ after you text them on their birthday. I think it’s all those places you’ll always see them because they stayed around for too long, and now their memories will stay there, too. I think it’s the way no one else’s hands will feel the same. I really think that’s it- I think what breaks us in the end is the way no one really loves you the same.
I feel something broken
inside of me but I am
scared to reach in to
find what it is that has
all this skin and bone
because I don’t want
to cut myself on any
of the sharp edges
and see the blood on
my fingers for that only
makes this broken
feeling a blatant reality.
she took a like for drawing
so i let her color in the darkest parts of me
i took a like for writing
so i wrote on her spine tracing the future we could be
my writings flooded her vertebrates
and her marker ran out of color
i was still writing
but she wanted to start over
(Source: , via nakedtruthxo)
I still get sad when I’m all alone. Maybe it will take more than January to July to get you out of my veins
My hands hurt ‘cause I’ve been
cutting moons. But I’m still trying
to make something beautiful out of
all this space.
1) I wish my parents would have told me that things can change so abruptly and sometimes so painfully and that all you can really do is just sit and stare blankly back at it. They never warned me about losing someone you loved and simply all the closure you can seem to get is a “I don’t love you anymore, I’m sorry.” and half of a wave goodbye.
2) I wish my parents would have told me that sometimes there is no fixing a person. That sometimes, a person simply is not broken. You can’t fix something that isn’t broken. Sometimes you are the person that is broken and needs the fixing. But humans are not medicine. They aren’t going to mend your broken bones or soothe the pain in your chest.
3) I wish my parents would of told me that just because you have an idea of a person, it doesn’t always prove to be the reality of that person. Sometimes the best liar can be your mind, intoxicated by attraction.
4) I wish my parents would have told me that not everything is as simple as we believe it to be. That sometimes, you have to continue to work and work at something, only to be shot back down again. Getting back up time after time can be difficult, but it wouldn’t hurt so god damn much mom and dad, if you would have informed me of its existence in the universe and the large roll it plays in our lives.
5) I wish my parents would have told me that among all of the drugs they tried so desperately to inform me of, the strongest known to mankind was love and the second, lust. More importantly, I wish they would have explained to me the difference between the two.
6) Finally, I wish that my parents would have told me that there is no avoiding getting hurt in this world. That I myself alone, am the hero of the story and I do not need to be saved.